To Become a Hero
by enid.lee
Summary: "This kingdom needs nothing more than a revolution. It needs a new leader. It needs...a Hero." But can she meet the challenge? In a true test of courage and resolve, a Princess troubled by doubt and uncertainty must decide whether to lead her people into a new era... or succumb to her own demons and leave them to die. Rated T, but will most likely contain M chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:**_All content pertaining to Fable is the property of Lionhead Studios.

**_A/N:_**The Fable universe has much to offer and I am taking full advantage of those resources. Much will be AU in my telling of this story; I always welcome constructive feedback, but please note that I am not just aiming for a retelling of what has already been told, but a new way of looking at the story :) So, you have been warned: don't expect this to adhere at all strictly to canon! Thank you for reading and I sincerely hope you enjoy it. Leave reviews!

_Enid._

* * *

To sad humanity alone,

(Creation's triumph ultimate)

The grimness of the grave is known,

The dusty destiny await . . . .

Oh bird and beast, with joy, elance

Effulgently your ignorance!

Oh man, previsioning the hearse,

With fortitude accept your curse!

-Robert William.

* * *

_The light grew unbearably bright, causing her to throw up one hand and shrink back. Suddenly, she lurched forward, her feet landing on a soft rug. She stumbled and fell._

_"Theresa?" _

_The Hero of Bowerstone rose in a deft motion that had saved her life on countless occasions. She stood under a glowing, dim light that did not eat into the deep shadows surrounding her. For a moment, all was quiet._

_"It is many years from now," Theresa murmured, her voice echoing hollowly around Elizabeth. "A Queen feels age weighing her down, along with the responsibility of an entire kingdom."_

_Astonished, Elizabeth looked down to see her light armor had been replaced with a billowing gown of fine red velvet. It cinched tightly at her waist, flowing back out behind her like a fan, the edges of her train embroidered with thread of a bright gold. A sudden weight placed pressure on her head and her hand shot up to protect it, only to close around the filigree and jewels of a royal crown. As she lowered her hand, her eyes widened to see it wrinkled and spotted with advanced years._

_"Walk forward," the Seer ordered. Nervously looking into the seemingly impenetrable darkness, Elizabeth obeyed._

_The glowing light followed her and expanded, its warmth widening to include a line of men who stood in stiff ranks on either side of her red carpet. Cautiously, Elizabeth approached them, feeling naked without her katana or rifle at her back. At least she could summon her Will if needed._

_"These are her men – loyal soldiers who would die for her. Many already have on battlefields at home and in faraway lands."_

_Elizabeth turned to look upon the soldier's faces. They were indistinct, like faces in an oil painting not quite completed or possibly rubbed out. They responded to her movement with a snappy salute; she drew back slightly, discomfited by their strangeness and attention to her. She may have become a Hero, but the years spent in the gypsy camp and as an unknown rebel fighting on the road had not prepared her for notoriety._

_Being careful not to turn her back on the featureless soldiers, Elizabeth proceeded further down the velvet path, the light's gentle presence following her like a friendly ghost. _

_A sudden swell of applause made Elizabeth spin around in astonishment. Surrounding her as far as the light could touch people stood in celebration, their faces also indistinct, but parted across with white slashes – like smiles. Disturbed, Elizabeth tried to carry herself in a dignified manner, but could not bring herself to look upon those shining rows of teeth in otherwise empty faces._

_"These are her people," Theresa breathed, her soothing voice a balm in the unsettling darkness. "Subjects who worship her, who trust her to guide them, protect them, and govern them."_

_Elizabeth made her way to the end of the line, where steps rose out into the shadows. Lifting her skirt with care, she took them upwards, trusting the light to guide her._

_"And this," Theresa went on, "Is her throne." _

_A grandiose chair made of gold stood proudly in the center of the dais. It, like the carpet, was plush with purple velvet. Elizabeth approached it with a shaking hand, full of disbelief, as she touched the cool metal of its armrest. _

_"This is Albion's seat of power, where she has made countless decisions, delivered justice, and led a nation."_

_"How?" Elizabeth finally asked, rediscovering her voice. "How does this come to be?"_

_"It is unimportant," Theresa replied. "None of this is important." _

_Without waiting for her, the light began to move away. Elizabeth hurried to keep pace with it; out of the darkness, a sudden cry made her gasp._

_"This is the _real _future."_

_Elizabeth went to the crib slowly, her heart in her throat. The baby cried out again, then settled, looking into its mother's face._

_"The child of the Queen - not yet born, but destined for greatness. A child on whom the fate of Albion will one day rest."_

_The baby had a face; it giggled and squirmed, reaching out chubby hands to greet Elizabeth. Automatically, she reached into the bassinet, silent with awe and a little fear. The baby's fingers closed around her finger; its skin was soft like fresh water against her skin. Blue eyes – her eyes - twinkled enigmatically up at her._

_"The fate of many people will depend on this child. As will the fate of Aurora."_

_The trance was broken; "Aurora? What is Aurora?"_

_Theresa did not answer; as if sensing Elizabeth would soon be gone, the infant began to cry, its face reddening to an alarming color. Elizabeth tried to soothe the baby with gentle noises, but it seemed nothing could be done. She turned back to look up into the darkness, seeking the woman who had raised her, made her a Hero, and now brought her to the edge of all knowledge._

_"Theresa? Of what do you speak? What must my child face?"_

_For a moment, only silence was the grim reply. The light began to dim considerably, swallowing her baby in darkness. Panicked, Elizabeth felt the warmth of her child's touch fall away._

_"No!"_

_Theresa's voice grew louder, echoing in the hollow space. "These things you will understand in time. For now, you must live your life. Love deeply, learn quickly, and do not try to predict the future."_

_"What?" Elizabeth shot back, angry. "Then why show me this? Why share any of it at all?"_

_"There are many threads that weave the cloth of Fate – too many to count. Yet there are moments when they all converge – events that cannot be avoided. There are futures that must be fulfilled. But this Fate is not yours to follow, Little Sparrow. Follow your heart, and you will prepare for what is to come." _

_Elizabeth spun around, feeling the darkness close in on her. Her hands were once again those of a young woman, her armor shifting noisily in the empty space._

_"Theresa!" She called, afraid and confused. "Wait! What is Aurora? What am I to do?"_

_"Live, Little Sparrow," Theresa's voice breathed as softly as the wind. "And know that I will always be nearby – waiting and watching."_

* * *

There was the clatter of furniture being shoved aside, followed by the crash of breaking glass. People cried out and ran for cover, all too familiar with the rough crowd drawn to the sticky-countered Rookridge Inn.

Aurora glared down her opponent – at least she thought it was one. Three angry men swam in her vision, blurred by lack of sleep compounded with watered down Honeybrew Ale. She'd lost count of how many tankards she'd drank; it had been another hard day at the Crucible Arena, another day of hearing about Logan's evil exploits and the deaths of more helpless Albion citizens. She could sometimes go days without drinking, but when the news of children being lost to the monstrous hunger of Bowerstone Industrial's factories, of entire families disappearing in the night or of people who protested her brother's laws and practices being shot to death in the street reached her dank inn room, the Crucible's challenges called to the fire and electricity in her hands and the burning thirst in her throat. Tonight had been a particularly rough one; word of Walter searching for her had reached the Inn. He had been looking for months, tailing her first across the breadbasket of Albion (Oakfield, Greatwood) and then to the coast, where she had managed to shake him off in Bloodstone by sailing a small boat around to Rookridge. For the last six months, she'd spent her days sleeping, fighting in the arena, and then spending the coin she won on ale and whisky. Merik, the paternal barkeep, often sent her to bed when he felt she was past her limit. Unfortunately for him, a Hero did not take well to a prescribed bed time, and could express their displeasure with a variety of overpowering talents.

"Alright you smart-mouthed little bitch, I'll show you who's the real _man _around here!" The mercenary threw aside another chair, shattering the low-quality wood against the side of the enormous fireplace. A woman screamed and scrabbled out of the way, having only a moment before been in the chair's direct trajectory. Aurora tried to concentrate; she felt the familiar tingle building in her hands, the energy swelling as it prepared to channel through her mother's gauntlets.

"Will you now?" she slurred, unsteady on her feet. "I'd like to see you try." Loudly, she hiccupped.

With a leering sneer, the mercenary laughed, joined by a few of his cronies. Aurora noted them out of the corner of her eye; they had made a circle around her, all bent slightly as they readied themselves to join their master. Bloody fools; hadn't they seen her at the arena?

"You think you're so special with your damn twinkly fingers." He withdrew his sword, the metal slicing loudly against its scabbard. "I'll remind you of that when I'm holding your guts against your face."

Aurora almost sighed; these fights were as much of her routine now as the arena and the drinking. It was always the same – only the idiots challenging her changed. Someone would hear of her exploits, come to see her in the Crucible, and then come sniffing around the bar, looking for a fight. All tough swords-for-hire who had something to prove. Ah, well.

Suddenly, he was moving, and for a moment Aurora was startled. But her Hero's strength and speed kicked in and she moved out of the way; his blade connected with a table behind her, clanging loudly in the silence left behind by the watching crowd's bated breath. Aurora swung around and released a small burst of fire out of her left hand, hitting him right in the buttocks. The "tough" man let out a little squeal, then swung back to face her, growling in fury as he yanked his sword from the stiff wood.

"Interesting sound you just made; does your voice go any higher?" Aurora loved baiting them; she loved to feel the hate oozing out of her into the other men. It relieved the poisonous burn in her stomach. Indistinctly, he roared.

Aurora ducked his charge, punching him hard in the back with one hand and pulling out her Hero's blade with the other. She could use her rifle, but that would hardly be sporting, would it? Something in his back cracked loudly and he howled. Swiftly, she brought him to his knees, placing the edge of her blade at his throat.

"If you surrender," she offered quietly, "I won't kill you."

Breathing hard through his teeth against the pain, the man spat on the ground, his expression contorted. Around her, the circle of his men contracted.

"Ah, ah, ah," she tsked loudly, making sure to hold the blade steadfast while she lifted the other hand. In her palm appeared a ball of electrified fire, emitting the sounds of a tiny thunderstorm as lightening cracked and danced within the flames, eager to be released.

"None of that, gentleman. This is between your… Captain and me," amused at her own joke, she smirked. Again, the man growled.

"Let me go," he snarled after a time. "Fool woman. You're just hiding behind your magic – you're not worth killing."

Aurora extinguished the flame immediately, sheathed her blade, and proffered a hand to help him to his feet. With a murderous glare, he refused it, rising slowly as he fought the pain of his broken rib.

"Bitch," he spat once more. A discontented rumble circulated around the room, the crowd shifting restlessly. Those who had no quarry with the Hero shrank away, either escaping to their rooms or leaving the inn entirely. Aurora became aware that Merik was holding a large hammer behind the bar, watching events unfold with one wary eye. The other was long gone, the gaping cave of his eye socket hidden by a black patch that clung on in a diagonal line across his face.

"Alright, chaps, that's enough for one night. Off you go." Merik raised the hammer up high, his face set. The eery chattering of building violence once again swept the room; Aurora knew this wasn't over.

Fighting a large crowd in a wooden building presented a bit of a problem. She couldn't exactly use her Will to end the fight, because she'd take the entire building down with her. At the same time, even with her strength and speed, there was no way she could single-handedly fight off fifteen men without it. A bit of sobriety began to fight through the wool in her head; they were in real danger. Strangely, instead of feeling fear, a thrill swept through her as electric as the lightening in her hands. A dim part of her felt shame for pulling Merik into this, but the rest of her was occupied with the whispered thought: _You wanted this._

The men had realized their advantage and began to close in, their pace slow and deliberate, each face stretching into a gruesome leer. One of them shut the front doors, barring them with a wooden slat. Merik, who had gone white in the face, slowly backed out of the room, hammer raised in a lingering threat. The leader circled around to grin maliciously at Aurora, who pulled the rifle from her back – which was, unfortunately, almost against one wall – watching them all and silently apologizing to Merik. As she braced herself to die fighting, a distant voice caught her attention and a furious growling began from the balcony above.

Several things happened at once – the door to inn suddenly smashed open with an almighty crash, causing the men closest to it to cry out in pain and surprise. From above, Aurora's faithful Border Collie, Roosevelt, descended into the crowd from the balcony, his lips pulled back to show his teeth. Aurora took the opportunity to electrify the leader, who had turned away in surprise, and then shot another man over her shoulder as he tried to rush her from behind. Two men she couldn't quite see joined the fray, shouting, but appeared to be on her side. Leaving them for the time being, Aurora shot another mercenary, his gunpowder-riddled body crashing back into the bar before folding in on itself like a ragdoll.

For several minutes, all was chaos. Metal clashed and clouds of gunpowder hung in the air. Several more men ran from the building, clutching a burning head or flaming buttock. Aurora was about to shout in victory when an overwhelming blow struck her from behind. She heard Roosevelt bark aggressively and rolled over, trying to get a look at her attacker.

The leader of the mercenaries had survived her electric assault and stood, arms raised, with his sword poised to plunge into her chest. Knowing she would die, one hand shot up between them to emit a burst of fire, but he kicked it aside, his teeth bared in a savage grimace. _This is it_, Aurora thought, closing her eyes; all around her, the noise seemed to disappear, replaced by a muffled silence. _I'm going to die._

Out of nowhere, a woman's voice seemed to echo in Aurora's mind. _Death is not your destiny today, Little Sparrow._

Aurora gasped, her eyes snapping open. Above her, the mercenary roared, lifting the sword for a deadly movement, when another blade abruptly protruded from his chest.

The man coughed; his eyes looked down, shocked, at the death sentence he'd just been handed. They lifted back up to Aurora's gaze, his face twitching; she winced, bracing herself, when she heard a sword clatter to the ground and watched in amazement as her attacker fell to his knees, gurgled, and fell over – dead.

Her head, between the blow and the copious amounts of ale, swam dangerously. She got the vague impression of a warm smile and then heard a man's voice say something in what she hoped was a friendly manner.

"Well, hello there, Princess. Fancy meeting you here."

Without further ado, Princess Aurora of Albion, daughter of the Hero Queen, fainted.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you to my reviewer, __**Sidcowmeow **__and to the people who have taken the time to follow and favorite my story! I am glad you are enjoying it so far - I hope you like the next installment too :) _

_Bacci,_

_Enid._

* * *

There was a splash of water and the unpleasant sensation of it climbing up her nose. Aurora snorted and gasped, reeling at the shock of it. A hand pushed the sopping hair out of her eyes.

"Wait, she's coming around now. That's it, wake up!"

Her vision was blurry and unfocused; feeling the beginnings of an almighty hangover pulsating between her temples, she groaned and internally attempted to edge back towards unconsciousness. But the gruff voice was having none of it.

"No you don't. You can do better than that, now wake up." A hand lightly slapped her cheek, stinging her and making her hiss between clenched teeth. A wave of aggression washed over her, followed by the familiar crackle in her palms.

"Bloody hell, how was she even standing up? She smells like a brewery."

Another male voice, slightly lighter than the first, chuckled appreciatively. "I have to admit, I'm impressed."

"Well, I'm not. Her mother would be appalled. Running away like that and then wasting her talents on engaging ruffians and drinking whisky. I'll tan her hide once her head heals up."

"You might want to make sure she can't set you on fire first. She seems especially fond of doing that."

"Aurora, open your damn eyes."

The wall and floor were purgatory against her aching limbs; everything smelled wet and salty, even briny. She felt a cold nose nudge her hand, which was followed by a soft, beseeching whine. A velvety tongue licked across her fingers. Aurora sighed; that was one being should simply could not deny. With reluctance and wincing against the stabbing pain behind her eyes and at the back of her head, Aurora forced herself to come back to the world.

"Urrghh," was all she could say. The world swung around in a nauseating dance.

"About bloody time," Walter, her mentor and dead mother's oldest friend, blurred into focus. He appeared mightily displeased. "I have a few words for you, young lady."

"I've been listening to them for about six months now. All I can say is you're not missing anything." The second man was one Aurora didn't know; he was harder to see as he was standing further away. She got the impression of a lot of blond hair swept rakishly to one side and a thick leather vest over a white shirt. The sleeves were rolled up; not far behind him, she caught sight of a sword and pistol thrown over a chair. They looked like they were army-issue. A soldier?

"You keep your opinion to yourself," Walter reprimanded, his heavy eyebrows stern. He'd always had the appearance of a bear, with his woolly beard and thick walrus mustache, but right now she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd actually growled. She'd never seen Walter so angry.

"WhermI?" She mumbled, her head lolling. Walter yanked her up by the shoulder and pulled her to her feet, pinning her against the wall. Surprised, Aurora could only gasp, wincing as her head connected with grainy wood.

"Walter!" The soldier tried to stop him, but the older man stayed him with one hand, his scowl focused on the closest thing he'd ever had to a daughter.

"You're sailing back – back to Bowerstone. The resistance needs your help."

She glared at him with one eye, the other closed against the painful needle of light shining through the window. Some part of her realized she was on a ship; there was the buck and sway of the open sea, and the cramped confines of a poorly- tended cabin.

"Is that so?" Her voice was still a bit slurred, but the defiance shown through. A flash shot through Aurora's mind: a woman screaming as Reaver shot her through the head in Bowerstone Industrial. The way she'd vomited in the bushes after she'd killed a guard. Failing to kill Reaver. Then running - running for her life.

"Yes, damnit!" Walter shouted, his mustache trembling dangerously. "You can't just turn this one down! You're not just a Princess anymore, you're a Hero! So act like it!"

This was a fight they'd had before. Aurora hadn't known of her power until her sixteenth birthday – the day that everything changed. For the first time in her life, she'd stood up to Logan – only to find out how gruesome he had truly become. After making the hardest decision of her life and being thrown unceremoniously into the castle dungeon, she was freed by Walter, who smuggled her from the castle. Between his and Jasper's efforts, they had managed to gain access to the Hero Queen's tomb, where they had descended into the bowels of the earth to discover if there was one sliver of hope left for Albion.

Jasper had barely been able to contain his nerves – he was only a butler after all, even if he had been her mother's most loyal of servants. She would never forget the ashen look upon his face as she had picked up the Guild Seal in her shaking hands. Walter had been intent, his whole being focused on whatever came next, all his hopes hinging on this one chance – the chance Aurora might be a Hero.

At first, nothing happened; the Guild Seal stared blankly back at her, as if it were dead. Then, a thrill of energy unlike anything she had ever before experienced swept through her body, leaving a powerful burning sensation in its wake. After a moment of blinding light and excruciating pain, the Guild Seal clattered to the ground, where Aurora had fallen to her knees in supplication to this new, awesome power.

"Bloody hell, it worked!" Walter whooped with triumph, pumping his fist and trying to do a jaunty two-step with Jasper, who was all but faint with relief.

"Are you alright, Princess?" Jasper went to her, joined by a tentative Roosevelt, who lovingly licked her right ear.

"I'm fine," she breathed. In fact, she'd never been finer in all her life. The sense of power was overwhelming; suddenly, rocks looked a little fragile against her strength. She felt as if she could disappear with speed; every sense was heightened so that it seemed as though colors burned like lanterns and every noise reverberated through her skull. And then the magic came.

The first spell she cast was one of fire; without the channeling gauntlets, it had been a messy business. In order to leave the tomb, she would have to activate a cullis gate with her magic. After a moment's concentration, she felt the pressure build, and then an enormous release. She imagined the sensation was akin to what birds experienced while in flight: a combination of unadulterated joy and the possibility of boundless freedom. As if nothing could touch her; as if nothing could get in her way.

That had been something Aurora always craved: freedom. Freedom from the confines of what it meant to be the daughter of the Hero Queen. She had loved her mother, make no mistake, but it had not been easy living in her considerable shadow. Elizabeth had died when Aurora was twelve; though her hair had silvered and a spidery web of wrinkles had begun to form around the corners of her eyes, she had still been a strong woman. Her death had been unexpected and swift; it did not come by the violence her mother so often faced, but quietly in the night, like a cat burglar. One day Elizabeth was there and the next she was gone.

The kingdom's grief had been immense; Aurora's own feelings were conflicted. Elizabeth had been a spectral presence, in and out of her daughter's life as she flitted from one Hero's duty to another. Logan and Aurora's father had perished many years before; he had been a great love and therefore irreplaceable, so Elizabeth had never bothered to remarry. As a result, when she sailed or rode off into the sunset to address yet another cry of her people, her children were left to be raised by servants and, occasionally, Walter. Walter had been a soldier once, but a bad knee injury in one of their wars against Samarkland had put him out of commission. He had regained some of his previous stamina, but no longer accompanied their mother on her more dangerous trips, instead electing to become her most trusted advisor and friend. Aurora had often wondered if they were also lovers.

Now, Aurora did not relish the thought of carrying on her mother's Hero torch. When she had first discovered her hidden talent, she had been thrilled. It had been a wonderful feeling to be drawn so close to a mother whom she had never felt she really understood. But once she got a taste of the responsibility involved, she felt hopelessly unequal to what was being demanded of her. How could an inexperienced Princess with no army training beyond the sparring she had done with Walter lead an oppressed nation into victory?

That night at the factories had confirmed her worst fears; after being cajoled and encouraged by Walter for three months, Aurora moved on their plan to try and take out Reaver. He was one of Logan's strongest allies, and certainly the most evil. Aurora knew of him from the stories her mother had told; the Hero of Skill who had mocked Elizabeth's abilities while shooting three men with one bullet. Despite the fact that her mother was the only living Hero with all three talents a Hero can possess – strength, skill, and will – Reaver was undaunted. He was also mysteriously immortal, something of which her mother had never been willing to speak. Elizabeth had obviously seen something of the power that maintained Reaver's youth and, whatever it was, it had alarmed her enough that she never again dared challenge it.

The result was that Reaver continued to thrive long after the Queen was dead, whispering poisonous ideas into Logan's all too willing ear. Reaver had grabbed the industrial revolution by its skirts and hoisted them above the head of every merchant, engineer, scientist, and worker in Albion. Now, children as young as six toiled 12 to 16 hour days in his factories for the equivalent of pennies, some dying from exhaustion where they stood. Whatever agreement Logan shared with this abominable man had made the kingdom a considerable amount of money – loot, if you were going to name it properly – and if that river ran dry, so would a great deal of her brother's power. They just hadn't been counting on Reaver.

"The resistance is better off without me," putting some of her special brand of brawn behind it, Aurora shoved Walter's hand off her shoulder. He grunted as he struggled to withstand her push, but was unable to steady himself without letting go. Furiously, he huffed.

"That's bollocks and you know it."

The blond soldier tsked disapprovingly, his tone bright and mocking. "You shouldn't say 'bollocks' in front of a Princess, Walter."

Aurora was angry; she was tired of having this argument and tired of being the Princess. She felt trapped somewhere between living and death; as if she had lost an essential part of herself and couldn't quite move on without it, but couldn't go back either. Ignoring the momentary flash of self-awareness that told her she looked like a rat that just crawled out of the gutter, she drew close to the other man and snarled in his face. "Who the hell are you?"

"Captain Benjamin Finn," he replied smoothly, not seeming the least bit bothered by her appearance or her stench. "But most people just call me Ben. I'm Second-in-Command to Major Swift. I know you've heard of him."

The name recalled the image of a middle-aged man with a mustache even more impressive than Walter's; she could remember his voice: slightly pompous, but well-meaning. A nobleman who believed in protecting the people, always seen with a cigarette gently smoking in his right hand. He had been one of her mother's most loyal soldiers. Aurora snorted.

"So, you brought one of the rebels along, did you? Well, you're wasting your time." Aurora shoved past him to get to the door, hoping she might be able to pay someone whatever gold she had left to take a smaller boat ashore. Maybe they were close enough that she could row back to Bloodstone. Before she could exit, however, Walter appeared as if out of thin air, slamming the door shut again. Aurora glared at him.

"You should get a look at yourself," he whispered, his tone menacing. Aurora felt a cold trickle in the pit of her stomach that told her Walter was disappointed – and so was she. For a moment, her temper deflated. "Hiding from your problems in bottles of whisky and ale; fighting bandits and mercenaries! And for what? A bit of coin? A bit of senseless escape? You'll never escape what you are, Aurora: your mother's daughter."

Just like that, her fury came roaring back. Without thinking, she threw her hands up, creating a small explosion of force that shoved Walter off his feet. Breathing hard, she ignored their shouts of surprise, glaring down at the man who had once been her closest friend.

"You just _don't get it_, do you?!" She shouted; it felt good to shout. She'd been quiet for so long, feeling herself slowly sliding down into the pits of her own personal hell, unable to stop herself and knowing it was wrong. It felt good to release her anger on someone else. "I'M NOT MY MOTHER! I WILL NEVER BE MY MOTHER! SHE'S _DEAD!"_

The silence that followed rang with her proclamation; Walter stared at her as if he'd never seen her before.

"You're right," he replied hoarsely a few moments later, "You're not her – she would never have run away to begin with. She would have fought. She would have stayed."

That hurt more than Aurora liked to admit, but she rallied. "Well, then you have your answer," she spat, once again turning the knob on the door. "You might as well leave me here and find someone else to lead your bloody resistance. I'll just botch it." The door slammed shut behind her.

Once he was sure the Princess was out of earshot, Ben sighed and shook his head. "That didn't go well, mate, in case you were wondering." He helped Walter to his feet. Walter still couldn't believe it.

"I don't understand," he told Ben, his forehead wrinkling with confusion. "Why is she doing this? Why won't she fight?"

Ben hesitated; Walter and he had a strict policy of how they expressed their friendship: berating; insults; jeers. To pause in their usual friendly, acidic exchanges in order to provide real advice - well, that was unprecedented. Not to mention awkward, considering their age difference and how much more Walter knew about the Princess than Ben did. But Walter was a good man and someone whom he considered to be a friend. He could do what he liked with what Ben had to say and so be it.

"Maybe, mate, you should try helping her find a reason to do this other than be like her mother."

Unsurprisingly, Walter's brow furrowed even further, this time with building thunder. "And what do you mean by that? Her mother was the greatest woman who ever lived."

Shrugging, Ben replied, "Well, _yeah_, that's kind of the problem isn't it? That's a lot to live up to. Aurora didn't even know she was a Hero until you had her try to use the Seal. Now, she's got all this power without any idea of how to use it and everyone is expecting her to just overthrow a tyrannical king? Who also happens to be her brother, by the way," Ben clapped Walter on the shoulder; the older man now looked less mulish and more concerned as he processed Ben's words. "That's quite a tall order. If I were her, I probably would have buried my face in vats of whisky too."

Walter took some time to consider this; finally, he heaved a gravelly sigh, looking chagrined. "Maybe you're right. I should go talk to her."

"That's the spirit!" Ben encouraged, not wanting to get involved in the least. Let Walter sort this one out; he certainly didn't relish the idea of being burnt to a toasty crisp. "I'm going to go see if they've got anything to eat around here. I'll leave you to it."

Ben exited the room, making a jaunty pace down the hall and whistling some tune to himself. Behind him, Walter hesitated, then made up his mind and set off to find Albion's last Hero.

* * *

The weather on deck was foggy and inhospitable; Aurora squinted to try and get a better look around, but all she could catch were the smoky impressions of the surrounding ocean and the sounds of men calling to each other as they rigged the sails.

Thumping feet played an uneven tune on the floorboards of the deck. Up ahead, she could see the captain, a small, withered man with a pipe sticking out of his mouth, steering at the helm. The blue smoke of burning tobacco rose in a continuous wisp that disappeared quickly into the fog. The air felt damp on her skin; it was unpleasant on top of her soaking hair and dirty, bloodstained jacket. She heaved the coat off, shaking it out to have a look. It was ruined; blood had spattered down the front from her barfight and the Crucible, not to mention the sleeves were burned and ragged from exposure to the fire in her hands. With a resigned sigh, Aurora tossed it overboard, clapping her hands together to relieve them of its sticky residue. Ignoring the pang she felt at the sight of her befouled palms – she could only imagine how the rest of her looked – Aurora made her way to the helm to speak with the Captain.

"Sir?"

The captain turned, one eye almost squinted shut, the other entirely too swollen to see through. She wondered what had made him look like that; his jaw also had an odd angle to it, as if he had been beaten out of joint. With one hand, he removed the pipe from his mouth and studied her shrewdly, not answering.

Aurora was mildly discomfited by his reception; "Are you the Captain?"

He did not initially reply; after a moment's consideration, he stuck his pipe back in his mouth, blowing out smoke and his answer in one breath, "Aye."

Aurora waited; when he did not add anything further, she inquired, "Then you can help me if I want to get off the ship?"

The captain turned slowly back to regard her once more, not removing his pipe.

"Because I have gold;" Aurora took out her purse and jangled the coin inside, hoping the sound was enticing. "I will pay you handsomely for a boat to shore."

The captain stood, without comment, staring at her with his one squinted eye.

Finally, he grunted, turning back to the helm and steering to the right. "No gold."

For a moment, Aurora wondered if he were simple - perhaps a first mate who had accidentally been left alone with the wheel? But then he spoke again.

"Sir Walter says you go to Bowerstone. No gold, no boat," glaring at her with his good eye, he nodded at her hands, taking out his pipe and pointing at her with it. "And don't ye be thinking that fire 'ill scare me. You keep yer hands to yerself, missy." Chewing on the end of his pipe, he rolled the end of it around in his wide, frog-like mouth for a time before puffing out some more smoke and steering. When he didn't turn back around, Aurora pocketed her wealth and went back on deck, assuming herself dismissed. There was no point if this man was loyal to Walter – she might as well swim back to Bloodstone.

For a moment, she actually considered it. If she could somehow sneak back to the Hero's Sanctuary – a place only a Hero could call into being with their magic – and steal her mother's set of Vortex gauntlets, she could float across the surface of the ocean on the backs of wind giants. That would, however, require her to sneak past Jasper not once, but twice, and that would be impossible. Apart from being the nosiest butler in all of Albion, he had raised her for most of her life and therefore had an uncanny ability to sense and descend upon her exact location in the midst of any wrongdoing.

Jasper had probably been staying there day and night since she ran away – technically, he could get out through the enchanted map table without her help, but he wouldn't have allowed himself to miss the opportunity to catch her if she came back. It would be the only other way she could get across Albion if she couldn't hire a boat. He had probably waited for the last two years, dusting her mother's weapons and straightening her old clothes and bookshelves, hoping Aurora would return.

There wasn't enough room in her throat for proper amounts of air, so Aurora went to the side of the boat and leaned over, gripping the shining wood and blinking back her tears. Poor Jasper; he'd always been so good to her. She thought of him smiling indulgently as he woke her in the castle, scratching Roosevelt's ears even though he wasn't supposed to share her bed, and felt an aching pain in the pit of her stomach. Jasper, Walter – they'd been her family, her guides, and her mentors. And she had turned her back on them when they needed her most.

Heavier footsteps roused her from her thoughts and Aurora turned; Walter was shuffling into view, his demeanor hesitant. Sniffing roughly, Aurora once again faced and sea and made her expression as blank as the white wall of mist surrounding them.

"Aurora," Walter murmured. He came to stand near but not directly beside her; he radiated heat, towering tall over her. Aurora wasn't tiny, but she wasn't as tall as her mother had been. She had nice, long legs for her height. Even so, Walter was a hulk of a man, and had always had the ability to make her feel diminished in size. Right now, she felt diminished in more ways than one.

Walter sighed; he too leaned over the starboard side, pressing his elbows into the wooden rail. Men on deck continued to shout orders and questions to each other; metal rattled against wood as cordage was pulled and sails billowed in the wind. Despite the hubbub, Aurora heard very little. Her heart picked up pace, equally torn between a desire to protect herself from Walter's disappointment and her own anger towards him.

"Aurora, I…. I'm sorry."

When the Princess turned to stare at Walter in surprise, he gave her that tilted smile she knew well – part humor, part chagrin. He shrugged his shoulders.

"You were right; you're not your mother – and you shouldn't have to be."

There was a long silence in which Aurora said nothing; her jaw tensed into a hard line, her hands clenched more tightly on the railing. Those deep blue eyes shone – with tears or suppressed animosity, Walter could not tell.

Walter continued, "I don't know why it became so important to me that you were like your mother – I was probably just afraid. Without your help, there _is _no resistance and so I tried to make you understand that the only way I knew how: by comparing you to Elizabeth."

"Yes, well," Aurora spat irritably, "I turned out to be a poor substitute." She pushed roughly away from the wall, making to storm off. Walter reached out to her; in a fit of pique, Aurora once again lost control, this time with electricity.

"Ouch! Bloody hell!" Walter vigorously shook his hand, blowing on the now-tender fingers.

"Then don't touch me," Aurora hissed, her hands shaking. Her body coiled like a spring. Aurora wanted badly to run from this confrontation – she had been for almost two years – but something inexorable was building. A dragon of feeling, uncoiling its long neck, the jaws yawning wide after so much time suppressed. And there was fire in those jaws.

"You ruined it!" Aurora shouted, suddenly beside herself. Walter froze; "You ruined _me!" _Without thinking, Aurora went to draw her sword, but it wasn't there. Growling, she clenched her fists, glaring up into his sad expression.

"You'd really kill me?" He asked, his voice gentle. Seeing red, she swung on him. Walter just barely ducked in time.

"Aurora!" Walter struggled with her, trying to keep her contained, but the Princess was beside herself. Ripe with a Hero's strength, she threw him off, her chest heaving.

"You said I could do it, you pushed me into _war _when I wasn't ready! And because of you, people _died!_"

Walter was curled on one side, gripping himself where he'd landed on the deck. He did not fight back, but breathed through his pain, listening to her.

"And because of that," Aurora whispered, the tears finally brimming, "I lost who I was, or everything I ever could be, when I had so little to begin with."

Aurora staggered back and sat abruptly down on a crate, burying her face in her hands. Walter waited to see if she was going to go on, but when she didn't, he pulled himself to his feet with a grimace and went to sit beside her. The crate elicited a dubious creak, but otherwise held.

Neither of them spoke for a time; Aurora was too overcome, while Walter had no idea what to say. What could he possibly respond with that wouldn't fall miles short of an adequate apology? Of course she was right; Aurora had not been raised to be Queen. Where Walter had wanted to teach her to fight, Elizabeth had been fiercely protective, sheltering her daughter from all matters of state and any manner of violence. It was only because Elizabeth was away so often he had even managed to get their trainings in and they had been kept a secret – until the week she died. Come to think of it, Walter hadn't been thrown like that since then – until now. The thought almost made him smile.

"Why?" Aurora croaked finally, her face still hidden. "Why did you make me go there that night, when you knew I would fail?"

"Because I didn't!" he blustered; seeing her hopeless expression, he tempered his voice. "Aurora, I truly believed in you – just as I do now."

The withering look she gave him would have surely incinerated anyone else on the spot, but he forged on. "No, I do. And not just because you are your mother's daughter."

Aurora scoffed, turning to look out at sea. Walter thought hard, a variety of openings presenting themselves only to be discarded as he tried to find something to say that wouldn't cause further offense. When he spoke, his tone was contemplative. Aurora peeked at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Your mother was so important to the world when she was alive – she changed all of us in the Old Guard. You know how loyal her men were to her, most of all me." At this, he hesitated again, before cautiously adding, "I loved your mother as much as I admired her Heroism. She was a damn fine person and will always remain our Hero Queen… but you possess merit of your own. I've always known that; I've always believed you would grow up to fill your mother's shoes. What I didn't realize when I gave you that Guild Seal is that it's not your job to fill her place – it's time you make your own."

Seagulls yawed above them; the fog was beginning to lift. The obnoxious birds were almost a pleasant sight, their wings spreading wide over a sky that was turning from grey to blue. Some warmth was beginning to seep into the atmosphere, chased by the beginnings of real sunlight. Aurora did not reply, somewhat stunned by this declaration, as well as torn between the idea of herself as someone with merit and a cowardly failure who'd run away from her destiny.

"You are not just a Princess, Aurora. You're a Hero – a true Hero. If you were unable to shoulder the burden of this power, you wouldn't have been given it. I think that's why your mother tried to protect you – she always suspected you were going to follow in her footsteps and she knew that was not going to be an easy path."

This elicited a disdainful snort, "Perhaps her concern was that I was unequal to it and should therefore be prevented from inheriting her abilities."

"No," Walter disagreed immediately, placing one hand on her shoulder. "Your mother believed in you, Aurora, she just didn't want you to be stuck without the privilege of choice – as she had been."

"What do you mean?

"Your mother had a saying for whenever someone would come to her for help: 'Once a Hero, always a Hero.' Even when her closest advisors begged her to turn them away, she never could. She felt it was her duty to give the benefit of her powers to Albion's people and that to refuse a quest would be a dereliction of that duty." Squeezing her hand, he added, "Elizabeth just wanted you to have the choice, Little Bean."

Aurora jerked at the term of endearment; she hadn't heard it since she came into that overblown sense of adolescent dignity. It made her soften. Even Logan had used it, when life had been better and he had still been the brother she thought she knew. Before he emptied of humor and became a hard, unreadable man who killed his people with cold indifference.

"I don't know," she murmured finally. The wind blew a pleasantly gentle breeze around her face; it tickled and curled around her neck, as if it were a stroking hand attempting to soothe her sadness. "Maybe I'm just a coward. I don't even know where to begin, Walter. If there's anything I've learned in the months I've been away, it's that I know nothing of being a leader." She shrugged, her smile wan, "I cannot win this war by myself – I'm just not enough of a Hero for that."

At this, Walter stood to face her, his expression deeply serious. "No one wins a revolution alone – even a Hero. Your mother didn't." Walter crossed one arm across his heart and, ignoring Aurora's aghast expression, bowed to her on one knee.

"Therefore, it is with the utmost pride that I pledge my allegiance to the rightful ruler of Albion, Princess Aurora of Fairfax Court, and hereby swear to serve her unto death in her pursuit of justice, equality, and truth."

"Alright!" she muttered, trying to tug him up, "OK, I get the point!" She looked about, hoping none of the crew had seen. She'd never hear the end of their disdain and Bowerstone was at least another week away.

Walter came up slowly, still solemn. "Whether you like it or not, I'm following you in this, Aurora."

The princess didn't know what to say; she felt terrified at the thought of this responsibility, but the overwhelming sense of relief that washed over her after Walter's declaration also told her that the last two years had not satisfied her desires. She had wanted to escape, yes – but Walter was right. There was no escaping this. She had to fight for her people, even if she didn't know where to start. And she would not have to fight alone: she had Walter, Roosevelt and Jasper – she even had the help of that pinhead, Ben Finn. With them at her side, she wouldn't need to know everything – they could show her the way. And then she could blast the path clear with fire. Everybody would win.

Though she told herself all of this, Aurora's heartbeat was still pounding. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she nodded her assent and rose to face Walter, looking him in the eye. "Alright, I'll help. I'll come back and I'll see if I can help."

Before she could stop him, Walter crushed her in vice-like grip, his arms wrapped so far around her she almost suffocated in his chest. When he released her, his face contorted with emotion, Aurora staggered back, out of breath.

"Look," she went on, "I'm not making any promises. Just because I have powers doesn't mean I'm not useless. I don't know a thing about battle strategy and you might as well ask a chicken what Logan's plans are for all the knowledge I have of my brother's schemes, but I've become a much better fighter and maybe there are some missions I could do. Where, you know, I just kill things to get them out of your way."

Walter chuckled, "I'm sure you'll have a lot more to do with victory over Logan than that. You're going to lead this army, Aurora – and you're going to be Queen."

The thought of that made her feel a little sick – although, to be fair, that could have been the hangover – but she chose not to comment. _One step at a time, _she coaxed herself, rubbing sweaty, shaking palms against her trousers. When she saw how dirty they were, Aurora blushed.

"You know, maybe I should go back to the Sanctuary and have a bath. I'm sure Jasper will want to know-" Aurora caught the stricken look on Walter's face; her heart plummeted. "What?" She asked, not really wanting to know. "What is it?"

"Aurora," Walter was very grim, "Jasper's dead."


	3. Chapter 3

It was with an overwhelming sense of unreality that Aurora listened to Walter's story.

"Jasper managed to use some of the magic of the Sanctuary to stay there and watch out for you in case you tried to draw from its benefits," he briefly gave her a hard look, but it melted away almost as quickly as it had appeared – he would have to get used to not being angry with her anymore. "We were able to correspond through the map table. When you left, its owner no longer commanded its powers alone, and so Jasper was able to make use of it."

Walter paused to watch the passing horizon. The sun was lowering now into what promised to be a spectacular sunset. Threads of rich orange as hot as a flame wove together with blushing pink. The gulls were sleepier; their calls were less urgent as they swung in lazy circles around the crow's nests and sails.

The distant ringing of a bell seemed to rouse Walter from his thoughts; "We thought that table was the last of its kind – only the combined Will of your mother and the Hero Garth had brought it into being. But there is a twin – and it is still within your mother's castle."

The rest followed in a predictably grim fashion: Logan, furious she had escaped from his clutches, searched the castle high and low for evidence of where she might have gone. His men tore the city of Bowerstone apart, looting the corners of the lowliest hovel for a hidden crack in the Resistances' hiding place. Fortunately, none of the rebels were discovered – but a great many innocents were killed, used as bait for the Resistance. For weeks after her disappearance, women and children were dragged into the streets, screaming, as Logan's fanatical contingent of Elite Soldiers grabbed them by the hair, skirts - a tiny foot. They would hold public executions, sneering at the crowds to save their victims, then would subject the innocent to all forms of torture. At that point in time, Aurora had been ensconced in a safe house, blissfully ignorant of Logan's crimes. It had been the combination of her lack of preparedness and Walter's mad determination to end the bloodshed that that destroyed their plans that fateful night in Bowerstone Industrial.

After Aurora failed to kill Reaver and fled, Logan was once again enraged at being thwarted. And then, as quietly as a spider whispering to a fly, was alerted to the possible existence of a Hero's secret hiding place by none other than the devil himself.

"Reaver," Aurora spoke the name with hatred through a wall of clenched teeth.

"Yes," Walter agreed, his bushy brow lowering. "He knew of the map and Sanctuary as a fellow Hero. With his help, Logan uncovered its location and made use of it with alacrity."

And then:

"Jasper was there when Logan finally managed to get in. I'm not sure how he did it, since he's not a Hero. I never told you this, but Logan tried to use the Guild Seal once. It rejected him – he had none of the Heroic powers. It was only because I tracked his every move that I managed to save the Guild Seal from destruction. Your mother had given it to me in confidence before she died. She expressly forbid me from sharing it with your brother, but somehow he discovered it. I think he would have punished me directly had he not been under the impression it was gone. But it seems that, as far as he was concerned, his goal was to take power – however he could get it. I became irrelevant."

"What… what did he do to Jasper?"

Walter cleared his throat, fighting the swell of emotion he felt as he tried to find words to explain, "Took him prisoner. Tortured him, interrogated him for days. When Jasper refused to tell Logan anything, Logan had him publicly hanged."

Aurora cried out in anguish and covered her face; Walter embraced her with one arm, trying to hold her together as she dissolved with pain. Jasper had been family to her and to imagine him suffering such a hideous fate… It were as though she would simply unravel from the agony, like a poorly sewn ragdoll. Walter gave her a little shake.

"I know, Little Bean, I know." He pushed a section of greasy hair from her eyes; tears left behind the tracks of grief in the dust on her face. "You must be proud of him, for he told Logan nothing and withstood incredible cruelty to protect us all. Jasper was a brave man and is worthy of honor."

Aurora hiccupped and nodded, but burned to scream and rail. She might have, had she not already exhausted her appetite for theatrical anger in the last two years. Jasper deserved more than that from her – he deserved her full commitment to bringing down her wretched monster of a brother. She sniffed loudly and wiped at her face, noticing dully how her head throbbed with the vestiges of her hangover and how her throat felt hollow and dry.

"What of the Sanctuary?" she demanded, imagining with a vicious pleasure going there and retrieving her mother's favored Dragonbone hammer, then using it to crush Logan's head.

"It's unsafe, Aurora – Logan could go there any time, as far as we know. Which we don't, because we haven't a comparable map table to check. The only Heroes recorded to possess such an object are your mother and her former Hero companion, Garth – who I haven't seen or heard from since I fought in the last war at Samarkand. He helped us overturn a tyrant there as it was his home country, then he disappeared into the Blade Mountains."

Aurora considered this; the likelihood that Logan had appointed a special guard within the Sanctuary to keep watch for her was about fifty-fifty. He was cautious, her brother, but he was also arrogant and greedy. He may very well have cleared the place out or – worse – destroyed it out of anger when he discovered it would be of no use to him. Because, however he had managed to use the map, he could not use the weapons, nor the books or the armor that had been specially made for her mother's talents. Either there would be nothing there at all, or there would be one more idiot for her to kill. There was only one way to find out.

Aurora stood up and turned to face Walter, her countenance one of absolute determination.

"I'll be back," she reassured him and, before he could do more than slacken his jaw, she summoned the Will deep within her to transport herself to the place of refuge her mother had built so many years ago.

There was the echo of a shouted protest, and then resounding silence. The Sanctuary was unlit, with cobwebs hanging from every corner. Aurora didn't move, watchful for the sign of any threat, but her senses told her she was alone. Following the initial high guard, she was bewildered. Her brother could have accessed a great many of her secrets; why had he left them to simply molder in darkness?

Aurora entered each room of the strange, circular place her mother had made into a kind of home. The weapons stood neatly within their stands, spiderwebs joining across their facets and handles in wispy ignorance of passing time. The armor was not polished or well-kept; much of it would need to be replaced. The weapons possessed special Will within them, and so were virtually indestructible, but a Hero's strength requires minimal protection. Whatever armor had been made had been done so with an eye for maximum mobility with little fatigue. Leathers and more modern jerkins with metal accents had been constructed for her mother's statuesque form. Now, they stood abandoned, their emptiness stern and haunting.

There was also a clothing closet, which still held many beautiful pieces her mother had treasured. They were dusty and somewhat moth-eaten, but their damage was minimal. There was a treasury, the operations for which Jasper had been deliberating over. It appeared her mother had not been so foolishly trusting as to leave that entirely unguarded, and so a series of spells had been erected to protect whatever lay within. Thus far, their components eluded Aurora. She did not understand this magic and had never been able to open the door.

There was a training room, a kitchen, and sleeping quarters. All were untouched, grey with a coating of dust. The final room was the one she most dreaded – its value was far beyond the others in terms of what Logan could gain in plunder. Aurora slowly made her way to the library.

As she had expected, the room had been left as if blown about in a wind torrent. The shelves were mostly stripped, with many tomes carelessly tossed to the floor. A few volumes were missing; it was inevitable that he would do this, but it still made her feel sick. What knowledge had he gained that she had not yet had time to learn? Or, more accurately, which she had neglected to take advantage of before her disgraceful bolt into the wilderness? What would he know when they next faced each other that she had not been counting on? Aurora ached to call for Jasper, to watch as he neatly put everything back together and reassured her it was "only a small mess," but he was gone. Her chance to save him had been thrown away by her own carelessness. Aurora gripped the frame of the door with white fingers; well, she would not allow herself the luxury of cowardice again. Enough people had died because of her incompetence.

The room needed to be reorganized, but there was no time now – not without reinforcements. Carefully, Aurora took some of the weapons, several pairs of gauntlets, and a new set of clothes. She couldn't completely conceal their absence, but she applied an ice gauntlet and managed to camouflage the gaps with webs of ice across the now-vacant spaces. It would have to do. Knowing Walter would be in a fit, Aurora closed her eyes once more and summoned her magic.

The noises of the ocean and boat were jarring after the stifled silence of her mother's old retreat. As expected, Walter was going mad, Ben at his side as Walter blathered on in his guttural voice.

"Oh! There she is!" Ben pointed helpfully; Walter swung around, his hands curled like talons in front of his face. "Aurora!"

Without ceremony, Aurora lowered the pack she had also stolen onto the deck; some weapons clanked into placed next to it. She nodded, "He's been in there, conducting searches, but there's no one on guard. I took some things I needed."

Ben helped himself to a rifle and let out a low whistle of admiration; "Now this is a fine piece of machinery."

Aurora gifted him a cold stare, "It was my mother's."

Smiling in what she presumed he thought was a winning manner, Ben returned it to her, nodding his respect. "And she had very good taste." Slowly, he backed away next to Walter, who was beside himself.

"You could have been killed, you idiot!" he told her, his face white. Aurora shrugged.

"Either it was going to be Logan, who has no powers, or some of his Elite cronies - who have no powers either. Whoever it was, I would have blasted them so far out of our dimension, not even the Temple of Shadows could have retrieved their essence."

"But then where would you be?" he demanded, still outraged. Aurora sighed, "Perfectly fine, as you well know, having fought alongside my mother. Have you learned nothing of the strength of Heroes?"

Ben chuckled, "Well, mate, I'll just say it: you've got your work cut out for you!" He rolled between his heels and the balls of his feet, arms folded behind his back and eyes twinkling.

Aurora coolly ignored him; there could be something said for noble training. It gave you the skill not to make a fool of yourself, even when others presented reasonable temptation to do so. Benjamin Finn was an irksome man.

"I would like to retire to my cabin and take a bath; I have some clothes, but there wasn't any food in the kitchen."

Walter was not finished, "You expect me to get you _food _after what you've done?!"

"What I've done," Aurora retorted calmly, "Is secure the tools necessary for me to proceed in an effective manner. There will be a confrontation with Logan, Walter. I might as well not be afraid of it." Steeling herself against the agony she felt saying his name, she added, "Jasper wouldn't have wanted me to behave that way, and neither should you."

This seemed to cause Walter to short-circuit. He understood her wisdom, but wanted to labor the point of his aggravation a bit more. As it was, it had been a tiring day, and with an almighty sagging of his body he seemed to let it go.

"Alright, I'll see if the mess can make a plate for you. Bloody lunatic." Walter stomped off, muttering to himself.

Left behind in the vacuum of his considerable presence, Benjamin Finn and Aurora stood in awkward silence. Finally, garrulous man that he was, Ben attempted to breach the divide.

"Lovely sunset; and baths are wonderful for hangovers. I'm sure your head will be much relieved."

As much as Aurora hated to admit it, it embarrassed her how obvious her drunkenness had been – not to mention the subsequent suffering it brought her. It did not befit a woman of her breeding and so she responded in a way that did.

"Excuse me," she replied, her tone brittle. She hoisted her loot over one shoulder and walked away, back as straight as a pin. Keeping her chin elevated, Aurora thought that, though Queen of Albion she may someday be, for now she would settle for a Princess who knew how to use icy tact. And a Dragonbone hammer.

* * *

Finn sagged a little with relief when she vanished out of sight. Whoo! The hostility on that one! She could teach some pirates a thing or two about evil stares.

Ben had traveled with pirates for a time when he was still a young lad. Mother had died, his brothers following shortly after – save poor John, who went to prison. With father a hapless drunkard slowly dribbling away his savings at the pub, Ben sought out other opportunities. It was either that or stay put and inherit the unhappy task of running his father's shop in a small village outside of Bloodstone, and he simply could not imagine himself trapped there. One day, he'd be hanging the sign and before he knew it, years would have passed to find him tracing his father's steps from the counter of his shop to the stool at the pub. That was no fate for Benjamin Finn.

Although, to be fair, being a pirate had not been the best plan, either. It had sort of happened by accident; he'd found his way to Bloodstone, the bustling harbor of Albion in the west. There, sin and revelry found their home amongst the docks where trade made its final stop before heading north. Ben had been agog at the scene; whores pranced in the streets without a trace of shame, hawking their wares as proudly and openly as the women who sold bread, potions, and meat had in his home market. Drunkards fell down in the streets, scattering refuse and vomiting where they lay. A tattooist made good business near the warehouses where sailors took their stock; Ben could still remember the toothless leer of a man who'd watched him pass, his brawny arm held out for the tattooist to trace a pattern of ink over his skin. When the tattooist saw the man's expression, his eyes had briefly raised, and Ben had caught sight of his strange earrings – glittering hoops suspended from large holes in each earlobe, framing a face entirely covered with blue paisley and writing.

Bloodstone had not been a difficult place to blend in if you didn't want to be noticed – no one cared for a young boy who'd run away from home. They were far too interested in the flourishing of local industry and how they could get in on the profit. Ben was very interested in some profit himself, but found that employment was difficult to come by if you weren't a criminal. Those few poor souls who rallied against the inhospitable conditions to provide honest wares were few and far between and none were willing to take on the responsibility of an apprentice. Ben could hardly blame them; with so many rough kinds prowling the streets, robberies were a common occurrence. And it was not difficult to steal or illegally trade for an item someone tried to make and sell honestly. There were two blacksmiths in the town and one folded not long after Ben arrived; though his weapons were of good quality, he refused to trade for stolen merchandise and tried to turn corrupt sailors into the authorities. The night his house was set alight, he slunk out of town without a squeak of protest. Ben never saw him again.

After begging for a time, Ben managed to convince the local tavern to take him on. His bed was a moldy cot in a room the size of a storage closet and he worked seven days a week until the sun had risen for dawn, but it was a roof over his head. He washed glasses and ran trays to waiting customers. Some of them took a liking to him; older wenches would pinch his cheeks and maybe give him a coin, if he said something particularly charming. Ben learned the value of a pretty word quickly; it served to please many customers into treating him well, and managed to fend off some hostile clientele who might have otherwise had him beaten. He was taken into the alley a time or two for his cheek, but he always managed to come back to work the next day – bruised maybe, perhaps bending a little at the waist, but ready to watch those sovereigns wink in the light as they exited ladies' skirt pockets.

It was one such night in the tavern where he had met William Parker – an innocuous name for a man dreaded by all who sailed Albion's seas, a man who had built a reputation worthy of Captain Dread himself. Dread was a pirate of two hundred years prior who transformed himself from a villain on a boat to a gang lord who demanded regular payment from most of the coast cities before his death. William had not yet reached such proportions of status as to warrant regular tribute from locals in exchange for him not beheading, burning, dismembering, or generally robbing them blind, but he had managed to secure a heavy respect from the citizens of Bloodstone and, considering their hardened outlook, that took some doing.

William frequented the tavern where Ben worked, laughing raucously with his men, accepting free pitchers of ale and rolling wenches enthusiastically across his knees. Ben often watched Parker with envy, wondering what it had taken to rise above the muck of this place and find a way to be free. William sailed when he felt a favorable wind, stole what he wanted, and spent little of the coin he had taken as businesses eagerly offered for free what others would have to steal to pay for – all to avoid his displeasure, or even perhaps secure his favor, whichever happened to come first.

This did not mean he was a popular man, however – fear more often breeds loathing than love, and William's "followers" were no exception. Finally, some fisherman grew tired of his antics – screaming and shouting until five in the morning, pouring ale on patrons' heads when they came too close to his table, trying to grab women already spoken for – and attempted to ambush him. It was a busy night for the tavern; most of the town had turned out for a drink and a bit of fun. Light as thick as butter shone in slats through the windows from the lanterns outside, mingling with the cool wisps of moonlight. The air smelled sharply of alcohol and sweat as body after body squeezed in from the harbor, their voices rising in a cacophony of catcalls and screeching laughs. Music played from one corner, while the scattered sounds of dice being tossed rattled against the surface of wooden tables, quickly followed by the whoops of the victorious, as well as the groans of the unlucky.

Ben wove his way through the crowd, tray risen high to avoid collisions. He was covered in sweat and ale, having already been pushed down several times as people broke into fights or fell over drunk. One whore had been particularly fond of him all night, trailing his "little buttocks!" through the crowd with a grasping hand. Not that Ben entirely minded, but he had a job to do. Just as he sighed with relief and went to wipe his brow, his burden having been safely delivered, the door opened once more to admit a gust of salty air and a crowd of fishermen. Their expressions were grim amidst the sounds of excess in high swing; Ben paused to study them, sensing trouble building.

He did not have to wait long; William was parked in one corner with his men, relatively subdued with so many witnesses at hand. The fishermen wasted no time in making their business known; before most knew what was happening, a table had been overturned, spraying the air with flecks of ale and hot candlewax. Screams and shattering glass made an orchestra of chaos as the fight broke out. William would have been overwhelmed by sheer numbers, had it not been for Ben.

In Bloodstone, a good brawl was relished as much as any other pastime, and the patrons of the bar did not miss an opportunity to get in a few good swings. When it became apparent that the fishermen intended an ending more brutal than a decent bruising, minor chaos morphed into genuine panic. People scrambled to get out of the way; others became caught in the bloodlust. At first knives were drawn and then the first shot rent the air, clouding it with gunpowder. Ben folded against the bar as the crowd seemed to expand in its haste to exit the tavern, his eyes wide and searching the scene. William was beating some man to a pulp in one corner; most of his men still stood, but were separated from him, caught in their own battles. A group of men were closing in behind him, their circle contracting with the promise of a hand tightening around a throat.

Ben didn't know what made him do it; perhaps it was his admiration of Parker or an instinct towards protection. In the bedlam, a pistol had been dropped. Ben saw it clearly through the flurry of movement, the background noise of violence fading away behind his concentration. Ben had only fired from a pellet rifle at cans, but he was a good shot. Without further thought, Ben retrieved the pistol and veered around, seeking a good perch. Pushing back through the crowds, he clambered onto the wooden bar, behind which the keep cowered, his hands over his balding head.

William Parker was aware of his predicament; he had drawn his own weapon, but even with it cocked and ready to pull, he was outnumbered. Teeth clenched, the pirate cursed under his breath, swinging his gun back and forth in an open threat. His attackers leered aggressively, hesitant, but not deterred. One among them held a bat of considerable girth; furiously, he raised it, and went to smash the skull of Parker in. William fired a warning shot at the man's foot; from his other side, a sailor lunged.

When the second shot fired, William's men roared their frustration, prevented from reaching him in time and fearing the worst. But, to their amazement, the sailor who had gone for William's throat was the one wounded. Everyone froze to watch as he staggered back, clutching his wrist. From it a blade fell and clattered to the floor, rivulets of blood following in the knife's wake. The sailor cursed; most of the men who had been ready to attack a moment before withdrew, their bravery lost in the face of a second gun. As the last of them clattered out – the sailor stumbling hurriedly out the door behind them – all the pirates remained, staring at a boy holding a smoking gun.

"Boy," William Parker barked, one eyebrow raised in skepticism. "Was that you?"

The air was still filled with smoke; Ben looked upon the astonished pirates and gulped. "Yes."

There was a moment of silence and then, William Parker, hardened mercenary and thief of the seas, threw his head back and laughed.

And so had begun Ben Finn's pirating career; it had been short, but fruitful. In fact, were it not for Major Swift, Ben had every confidence he'd be dead or imprisoned by now. Good thing he could shoot as well as he did or he'd never have made it into the army.

Thinking of that time made Ben wistful. He missed the early days of his military career, when he'd been a busy soldier of the Queen's Royal Army, fighting worthwhile wars overseas. Ben was twenty-one when Logan took the throne five years ago; since then, he'd been relegated to increasingly minor duty under Major Swift's command. The more Swift voiced objections to Logan's tyrannical rule, the more the King had dismantled the pillars of his mother's army, until they were nothing but scattered contingents posted to the remote corners of Albion, with all the major assignments occupied by his Elite Soldiers. Frankly, Ben was surprised he hadn't just killed them off, considering Swift and he were Loyalists (the term the revolutionaries had used to refer to themselves before revolution became necessary). They, like their former Queen, believed in a democratic monarchy, where issues of state were voted upon by a house of representatives and then approved by the Queen. Logan had taken her government apart about a year after taking the throne and now ruled on high – something that had not been done in Albion for over five hundred years since the fall of the Old Kingdom. Ben felt in his deepest heart Logan had to be stopped. Not since he had joined Major Swift had something inspired this much conviction in Ben Finn.

Which was why he was so doubtful of their current course of action. He could understand finding the Princess; every movement needs a figurehead and she was the Queen's daughter and a Hero, which made her especially qualified for the job. She could inspire a nation to feel the courage it would need to fight Logan back – the only question he felt they had to ask was, _when? _It seemed to him that this was merely a girl with some special abilities she didn't know how to use. Would it not be better to put someone more experienced in charge and stow her for display at a later time?

Ben had said as much to Swift before leaving with Walter the month before without much support offered in return. Major Swift, like Walter, seemed to operate under the thin hope that the daughter would be like the mother and had dismissed Finn's concerns. Ben trusted Swift like a father, but he hoped that his and Walter's convictions would not be the undoing of all their hard work.

After enjoying some food in the mess, Ben went back to their set of cabins below deck. Her Royal Highness would have already eaten and bathed, no doubt. He didn't know what he could offer her in terms of assistance, but it seemed at least civil to pop his head in, if they were going to work together.

Walter was returning from a conversation with the captain when Finn got below deck. The waters were relatively calm for springtime, but the boat still bucked with nauseating regularity. Ben was glad for the experience he had at sea, or this might have been a very unpleasant journey.

"How's our prickly ward?" He asked Walter, ducking under a low beam in the ceiling. The door clapped shut behind him; Walter was standing next to his bed, rifling through papers. At Ben's question, he scowled.

"She's the Hero of our movement, Ben. Show some respect."

Ben shrugged, "I didn't mean any disrespect, Walter – only to suggest the Princess has had a rough time of it." He tried to smile winningly. Walter glared.

"I know what you said to Major Swift, Ben. You don't know Aurora like I do; when we get back and in the swing of things, you'll see just how much of a leader she can be."

Ben somewhat doubted it, but chose not to answer. Instead, he asked, "How long until we dock?"

Gathering the papers together and shuffling them back in order, Walter shook his head. "Five days or so; I wish it were sooner." He retrieved his pack and stowed some of his things inside it, turning back to sit on the bed. Ben went to sit across from him.

"What's the plan when we get back?"

Walter rubbed his beard thoughtfully, "I've got to discuss it further with Aurora, but Swift needs to meet her. He's still stationed in Mourningwood Fort, which is a few days' ride from Bowerstone. And then, of course, there's Page."

Ben winced; Page was the leader of the Bowerstone Resistance. She had worked in the factories as a child and grown up to educate herself and develop a variety of fervent opinions. It wasn't that he didn't respect her intentions, but she could be a difficult woman to deal with.

"I have a feeling that meeting won't go very smoothly."

Walter nodded, blowing out through his whiskers in a tired sort of way. "Page doesn't like the thought of involving someone connected to Logan, but that's where she can be shortsighted. She's a good lass, but a revolution cannot be won on principles and gunpowder alone. It needs a beating heart. That's Aurora."

Ben chose to neither agree nor disagree with this statement; "So, Page first and then Swift's Brigade? It only makes sense to pass through Industrial on the way to the fort."

Walter was stubbornly resolute not to exclude the Princess, "We'll finalize the plans with Aurora. Now, why don't you get some rest?"

Walter went to check on Aurora and Ben lay back, content not to get involved at the moment. He wasn't sure why Swift had sent him on this mission in the first place. Perhaps he thought Ben needed the bit of action to keep him from getting restless. Either way, they had their prize in tow and would soon be back in the city of Bowerstone. Ben decided he could worry about his usefulness then and let Walter, Page, and the Major handle the rest.

* * *

"Harbourside."

Aurora looked upon her fair capitol and nearly winced. The screeching whistle of a boat arriving in the dock rent the air, along with steam and smoke from the factories. Beggars were knee-deep at the docks, jostling alongside the workers who loaded and dispatched crates from shipping boats. Some of the men she saw had obviously once been soldiers, their bodies encased in the rags of her mother's now antiquated Royal Army uniform. That man Finn made a point of handing them coin as they passed by, his face drawn and tense.

Bowerstone Industrial had split from the main part of Albion's capitol city when Reaver built the first factories almost forty-five years ago. Industrialization was in its infancy then, but - in his typical fashion - Reaver maximized on its potential. He swept in like a plague, buying up property faster than the Crown could document it. Before long, most of Bowerstone was employed in his factories. Initially, the promise of new industry brought hope. People dreamt of opportunity in the city – a chance to move away from the arduous life of farming towards comfort and equal share of Albion's wealth. That, sadly, was not to be.

"Page is in the Sewers!" Walter had to raise his voice to be heard above the chatter of the crowd and the gears of industry. The factories were in full swing, filling the air with soot, sweat, and noise. Walter had told Aurora about Page; she hadn't known where to begin any better than Walter had and so had made a show of thinking his suggestion over before agreeing it was a sensible plan. Aurora didn't want to let Walter down; nor did she want to give that smug idiot, Finn, any more reason to smirk at her inexperience. She supposed that she was already on her way to being royalty in that sense – faking forethought or understanding to cover for her utter lack of direction.

The sewers were famous in Bowerstone. They had been constructed not long after Aurora was born and were built to pour their waste directly into the canal out into the ocean. The result had been to destroy that which had once served as a small oasis for locals to fish and swim. All leisure had been narrowed to include only what could be found in the local pub when people came off twelve or sixteen hour shifts. Children no longer attended school in Bowerstone either, instead joining their mothers, fathers, and extended family in the factories. Not that an education would have afforded them much opportunity now anyway; Logan had closed Albion's only university not long after he took the throne. As swiftly and surely as a predator cornering its prey, her brother and Reaver had trapped the people of Albion into a life defined by what the rich allowed them, with no means of real escape.

There were a few areas which allowed a modicum of freedom through farming, but it was not an easy life. Those who made their living that way in Oakfield and near Brightwall on the east side of the country still had to rely on her brother to purchase their goods. Without his cooperation, they would have had to surrender their goods to his Elite Soldiers without any pay. Logan had stationed them in every major town in the country, and there were several patrols specially appointed to move from station to station, so that smaller towns and villages could be inspected on a regular basis – even if they weren't a source of goods. Soldiers took what they wanted and moved on, often drinking and eating most of the town's supplies. They raped women who didn't submit willingly to their charms, and would hang men who went to stop them. No one felt safe in Albion – no one felt they had any place to hide.

That was why Aurora had gone to Bloodstone and Rookridge. No one there cared about the law. In fact, they relied on illegal activity to live, so the soldiers would merely appear, be offered some form of payment in exchange for their speedy departure, and leave. She had never had to worry about them focusing on either town for very long, or about feeling the need to protect some hapless citizen. There were no innocents in Bloodstone or Rookridge, leaving the Princess off the hook when it came to inconvenient heroics. All she had to do was buy her whiskey and blend in with the crowd.

Aurora sighed as she looked upon a crane lifting some supplies from a dock by the canal into a factory. Her eyes travelled down the length of the crane into the stream of people passing her by. There was a man pushing a merchandise cart, his face as gray as the smoke rising from the Stacks (the nickname for the line of factories along the canal). Behind him, two women asked for money, one with an outstretched hand, the other with a skirt hoisted suggestively above one knee.

As they passed the tavern, some drunkards were thrown out. Aurora could hear breaking glass and the sound of a piano playing. The men cast into the street cursed vehemently, trying to right twisted shirts and tilted hats. One of them reared around and nearly slammed into her, his eyes bloodshot, his face haggard and covered with white stubble.

Everything smelled in Industrial; the scents of oil, decay, and hopelessness. They carved a path through the weaving crowd, Aurora's stomach growing sick from the sights and sounds. The odors were no help either, but she had to admit to herself that it was less to do with the smell than the thought that she could have been helping these people for two years, and didn't.

"Here we go!" Walter suddenly veered to the right, sliding out of sight on a narrow staircase into the underside of the canal. A bridge erupted to the left, bowing gracefully into the west end of Industrial. Aurora followed him, tailed by Ben, and they descended into an area often referred to as the Pits, where people injured in the Stacks went to live after they could no longer afford Reaver's rent.

The Pits were slightly quieter, muffled by the bridges above. A few fires flickered in empty oil drums along the side. Inside the segmental arches carved back into the walls of the canal, people huddled against cool air and detection by authorities. Most of the time, the Elites didn't bother coming down here. They had tried finding the Resistance in the sewers, but had been unable to track them. When they were lacking in sources of folly, the Elites would sometimes come down here to take one of the homeless away for "questioning", which usually meant torture. If they were lucky, the individual would be returned to the Pits, riddled with injuries. Most of them never came back at all.

Walter nodded to the men and women who lived here; his saber rattled in its scabbard, tied to the belt on his waist. People did not bother them, but did not welcome their presence either. The Resistance had to be cautious here, not only because of the authorities who wished to capture them, but because of the Pits' homeless who'd be willing to betray them for a hot meal, or a chance back into the Stacks. Some of them had lost their job for a political reason – refusing the advances of a foreman, usually, or maybe being caught stealing some food. As a result, the Resistance's location moved often. Today, it appeared to be under a factory that riveted weapons and large machines. Walter showed her the door, keeping his back to it and scanning the area for spies.

"Now," he whispered, "This is the last place I was able to access the Resistance headquarters. It's been three months since then, so they'll have moved. The way they let people know where they've gone is by scratching a code by the door. Look around in the stone for something like a symbol, not a word."

While Walter and Ben kept lookout, Aurora searched every cranny and brick next to the door. At first, there was nothing, but then she found a tiny scratch that looked like it could be a sun, or a glaring eye.

"Walter."

He came to inspect her discovery and quietly cursed.

"That means it's being watched," he told her. Grabbing her arm, Walter began to exit the area at a quick pace, his eyes rolling in every direction. Finn followed them closely behind. She heard the soft click of him loading a pistol.

"We need to get out of here, now. We can go to-"

As they careened around into an entry leading into the Cesspools (an underground exit from and entryway into the Sewers), a nasal tone cut across their hurried whispers.

"Well, well, well…." Nigel Ferret, the king of crime in Bowerstone and her brother's long-held toadie, emerged from the shadows. A cigarette smoked in his hand, his face leering down at her from a higher platform. "It appears the mouse has come home to the cat. Hello, Dearie!"

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for your patience! I'm sorry to be so delayed in my posts; it's been a rough few months for me. I really appreciate your readership and feedback. Please leave reviews!_

_Enid. _


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